


Thirst // Hunger

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: American Assassin (2017), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Drinking, Captivity, Human/Vampire Relationship, Kidnapped Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Vampire Mitch Rapp, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: Kate opened the barred door and threw the other human inside. A young boy. He landed on the ground limp and unconscious, his exposed skin scraped and beading with blood from the fall. Mitch's pupils dilated; he could feel the black swallow the whites of his eyes. His mouth watered from the scent of fresh blood, his stomach cramping with hunger. How long has it been since he last fed—weeks? Months? Years?
Relationships: Mitch Rapp/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 22
Kudos: 118





	Thirst // Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, it's here! If this looks familiar, that's probably because it was originally a few snippets posted in my fic The Mitch Chronicles in chapter 12, now a fully fledged fic of its own!
> 
> Edit (10/24/20): Holy mackerel guys, there were *so many typos*. I was reading this last night and was HORRIFIED at how many glaring errors managed to get past my initial edit. I am so sorry to anyone that read it before, and to anyone reading now, if you notice any others, please point them out to me TT_TT

Mitch bit into his wrist, blue veins spilling cold blood into his mouth. A futile attempt to fool his body into thinking he's fed; the reprieve would be minimal at best. There were no nutrients left in his own blood, the lack of iron leaving it thin and watery. Disgusting. But he was so _hungry,_ with nothing to feed on. No other alternative. Not so much as a rat scurried through his cage.

No, he’d been left in the dank, dark cell to rot.

***

Down the hall a heavy metal door slid open, grating against the cement floor in a way that made Mitch grind his teeth together, clicking bootheels signaling his captor’s approach. It all echoed through the cell Mitch was confined to, reverberating down the hallway and off the walls. He didn’t move from his place on the ground, his back against the far wall of the cell. Waiting. Watching. Blood rushed in his ears and sharpened his senses down to one single point: two heartbeats pulsing outside his cell. One strong and steady, the other a weak flutter.

"I'll bet you're hungry," his captor cooed. She had a sticky sweet voice like molasses.

 _Kate Argent_. He could smell her blood from where he sat; it was rich and intoxicating. The scent of it alone had been alluring enough to draw his attention across a crowed bar the night they met. Out of anyone he could have chosen, there was something about her that pulled him in, and Mitch was stupid for not seeing her for the trap she was. A fucking _hunter._

_He never stood a chance. By the time he realized, it was too late._

Mitch hated her more than he'd ever thought possible to hate someone. She inspired a kind of all consuming, single-minded rage he hasn’t felt in decades. Not since he was still human.

On those few nights he slept—when the mind-numbing boredom got so bad, he had no choice but to lie unconscious for a few hours, or else lose his mind—he dreamed of ripping her throat out with his teeth and _bathing_ in her blood. He dreamed of trapping _her_ in this damned cage, keeping her chained up and barely alive. Just enough for him to slowly bleed her dry. He would drag it out as long as he could, make her suffer for _weeks,_ and it would still be a pittance in comparison to what she’s done to him. Reduced him to. A predator brought to heel.

"I brought a treat for you, sweetheart,” she said. “I don't want you dying on me." Mitch bared his teeth when she turned on the light; it burned his eyes after so long in the dark.

Kate opened the barred door and threw the other human inside. A young boy. He landed on the ground limp and unconscious, his exposed skin scraped and beading with blood from the fall. Mitch's pupils dilated; he could feel the black swallow the whites of his eyes. His mouth watered from the scent of fresh blood, his stomach cramping with hunger. How long has it been since he last fed—weeks? Months? _Years?_

The door swung closed with a loud _clang!_ before Mitch could even think to make an escape attempt, his eyes trained on the unconscious human. Kate stood safely on the other side of the door; when Mitch dragged his black eyes towards her, he found her watching hungrily. 

_Fucking sadist,_ Mitch thought, clawing back his hunger with sheer strength of will. Kate probably expected him to tear into the human like a piece of meat, prove to her that he was nothing more than a starving animal, but he wouldn't. He _wouldn't._ Instead, he dragged himself as far away from the human as he could get—not very, maybe six feet at most—and laid against the wall with his back to the boy.

 _Out of sight, out of mind._ Slowly, he forced his aching fangs to retract, grinding his teeth, and pointlessly tried to block out the sound of healthy, rushing blood, offered up for the taking. There was no other sound in the cell save the human's faint breaths. Mitch listened to Kate's heart instead, imagining he lived in a world without bars, where he could feel its pulse in his hand as he ripped it out of her chest.

"You're not going to play with your food?" Kate taunted. Mitch closed his eyes and ignored her. It was easy when the human's heartbeat, his rushing blood, drowned her out. She scoffed. "Fine, then. Maybe you don't deserve a treat after all."

Mitch stilled.

Kate opened the cell again, watching Mitch carefully as she entered, just far enough to reach the human. Mitch didn’t move a muscle, didn’t _breathe,_ waiting for the opportunity to strike. Kate _never_ came into his cell. This may be his only chance.

Mitch lunged when he heard her grunt of exertion as she picked up the human. Kate dropped him and leapt back, barely snapping the bars closed in time to protect her from the desperate attempt at escape. Mitch threw himself at the door, reaching through the bars. Kate collapsed back out of reach of his outstretched arm, narrowly avoiding the claws tearing through the air where her throat had been moments prior.

"Looks like you've still got some life in you, after all," she gasped. Then smirked. "Good. I don't like my toys broken too early."

"I'm going to kill you," Mitch hissed, his eyes black and his fangs bared, shining in what little light poured down the hall. Hardly intimidating in his weak, gaunt state. He could barely see from the sudden headrush of moving so fast. "I'll tear your throat out you psychotic fucking bitch."

"Sure, honey, keep telling yourself that. I’m sure you'll have plenty of time to think up all kinds of things you want to do to me." Kate left with a spiraling echo of cruel laughter.

***

The first thing Stiles registered was the pounding in his skull. It made his vision swim when he opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Or, no, that was him, writhing on the ground. He stilled and reached out, trying to gain his bearings.

_Where am I?_

Lying on the ground. That much was obvious. Stiles could feel cold cement beneath him, leaching the heat out of his body, making his bones ache. He didn’t know how long he’s been there.

Stiles dragged himself onto his knees and crawled forward, sweeping his hands in front of himself so that he didn't run into anything. After a few steps he hit a wall. Stiles carefully stood, keeping one hand on the wall so he didn't lose himself. With the other he felt his skull where the woman had bashed him over the head—he had a swollen, aching knot at the back of his skull, the source of his concussion.

_Great._

Stiles braced himself on the wall and walked forward, counting his steps until he hit a corner, continuing down two more walls. The fourth had a door, barred like a cage. " _Fuck._ "

Stiles whipped around when he heard movement behind him.

"Hello?” he asked, terror gripping his heart. There was no answer, but Stiles was certain he heard the rustle of fabric…. He wrapped his hand around one of the bars—it was grounding, having something to hold onto, even if it was the source of his entrapment—and exhaled. "It was probably nothing. Just your imagination, Stiles."

"No, it wasn't," a low voice rasped. Stiles _screamed—_

***

The human was blind in the darkness, but Mitch had near-perfect vision. His eyes were designed to let in as much light as possible, and the faint glow from the lamp down the hall was more than enough to see by. The human’s erratic movements coupled with his echolocation allowed Mitch to see him as clearly as if he were standing in a well-lit room.

He watched the human stumble blindly around the room, trying to see how big it was—twelve feet and seven-point-two-five inches by eleven feet and five-point-five inches, Mitch measured it by hand shortly after he was first trapped—and kept out of the way as he carefully slid along each wall. When the human got close enough to touch Mitch moved to the farthest wall, opposite the door.

He thought about leaving the human alone in the dark. It was easy for a vampire to move in silence—the human would never have to know he was there.

What was worse, being confined to darkness, or knowing you were trapped with a monster?

Mitch said nothing when the human called out. Then a memory occurred to him; so long ago, decades, in a different life. He was held prisoner in a cage just like this, and he would have given anything just for someone to _talk_ to. Welcomed the torture by his captors because at least it meant an end to the total sensory deprivation. Humans didn't respond well to a lack of stimulation.

"Just your imagination, Stiles."

"No, it wasn't." It was gratifying to watch the human scream and cower, frantically looking at nothing, holding onto the bars in the door like they were a safe haven.

"Who are you?" Stiles asked, voice shaking.

Mitch could smell his fear, hear his blood. _At least I'm still frightening to some._ Once, before becoming a vampire, the mere mention of his name was enough to have the worst members of humanity cowering in fear. Now he was _leashed._

"Mitch," he answered plainly. There was no reason to scare the human more than he already was. It took him longer than it should to remember basic manners, but in his defense, he's been trapped in solitude for months. And he never had much in the way of manners to begin with, anyway. "Are you okay?"

"No! I'm really fucking not! What the hell is happening here, where am I? Where are _you_?"

"In front of you."

"How do you know where I am?"

"I can see you."

" _How?_ "

"I've been here a long time. Your eyes will adjust to the darkness." A white lie, but believable, and close enough to the truth. Stiles may eventually be able to make out some shapes; his brain would learn to supplement sound for vision. "I don't know where we are, but the woman that kidnapped you, her name is Kate."

"How do you know?" Stiles asked.

 _Because I made the grave mistake of sleeping with her,_ Mitch thought, but didn't voice it.

"She likes to talk. How old are you; it's Stiles, right?"

"Yeah… I'm uh, I'm seventeen."

"That means you're still in school, right?"

"Yeah." Stiles perked up somewhat. "My dad will know I'm missing as soon as he comes home in the morning. He'll find me," Stiles said fiercely.

Mitch believed Stiles' father would try. But he didn't think the man would succeed.

***

Kate came back presumably the next day and flicked on the light. A single bare bulb encased within a metal cage to protect it. Mitch hated that fucking light.

"He's still alive." She sounded disappointed. "Aren't you hungry, pet?"

"Go to hell," Mitch snarled. He didn't have the energy to put on the show she was looking for, not when every ounce of his strength had to go towards not ripping Stiles' throat out. Kate scoffed and opened up a hatch at the bottom of the door—Mitch never noticed that before—and kicked through a wrapped sandwich and bottle of water for Stiles. She flicked off the light and left; probably had better things to do than torment her prisoners.

"What was that about?" Stiles asked warily.

"Who knows? She's a fucking psychopath," Mitch deflected. "You should eat that."

"What if it's poisoned?"

"It's not."

"How can you be sure, though?"

"If she wanted you dead, she would have killed you already. Trust me, poison isn't her MO."

"That… is not reassuring." Mitch shrugged, even though he knew Stiles couldn't see it. "What about you?"

"I'm fine," Mitch lied. While he could eat like a human, in the state he was in—no healthy blood left in his body for it to properly function like a human—it would only make him sick. "Just eat the sandwich, you need to keep your strength up."

***

Every day Kate came back with a sandwich and a bottle of water for Stiles, just enough to keep him alive. She never stayed long. Mitch always ignored her, refused to rise to her attempts at baiting him in hopes she would lose interest.

He should have known better.

After what had to be close to two weeks, Kate came back empty handed. She opened the door and stood there, her arms crossed, stance wide. Watching Mitch unflinchingly and all but _daring_ him to attack.

Mitch wanted to. _God,_ he wanted to, but he watched her warily instead. He had no doubt it was a trap, and Mitch liked to think he wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it. Not for a second time. 

“You’re boring,” Kate announced, rolling her eyes. “Fine, if you won’t play with me...” She uncrossed her arms and Mitch only had a second to see the taser in her hand before she fired it.

The metal prongs dug into his skin and _burned,_ agonizing currents of electricity arching through him, locking up his body. He could just barely make out the sound of Kate laughing as he convulsed in pain.

“You used to be so much more fun, sweetheart,” she mocked, finally entering the cell. Stiles was somewhere in the corner, watching in horror as Kate toed at Mitch’s jolting form.

“You—bitch.” Mitch spit through clenched teeth.

She grinned, and raised the voltage until he screamed.

Kate went for Stiles, frozen in fear. She grabbed him by the back of his shirt to drag him kicking and screaming from the cell. Once she was safely outside, she disconnected the cables and slammed the door, leaving Mitch trembling and gasping on the floor.

“ _Fuck!”_ Mitch shouted to the ceiling. He had no idea where Kate was taking Stiles, or what she intended to do with him. Maybe he _should_ have just killed the kid to spare him from whatever she had planned.

***

Kate threw Stiles into a chair and tied him down with rough twine around his wrists. It chafed painfully at his skin when he tried to yank away, too tight. He looked wildly around the room, hoping to find some way to escape; it was small, like some kind of old utility room, with a metal table in the center. Kate sat on the edge of it and picked up a pocket knife lying innocently off to the side. He hated the way she spun it through her fingers.

She watched him, her head tilted on an angle, and Stiles couldn’t help but feel like she was sizing him up.

"I'm disappointed in you, cutie pie,” Kate finally said.

Stiles swallowed. "What are you going to do to me?"

"My pet was supposed to eat you up." Kate ignored him, grinning in a way that made his skin crawl. “I guess you're just not his type. Too skinny, maybe, not enough meat on your bones. I should've gotten someone a little _juicier."_

Tears pricked Stiles' eyes, shame heating his cheeks. So, what, he wasn't fucking attractive enough for her? "What do you _want_ from me?"

"Nothing,” Kate said with a shrug. “It’s not you I’m interested in.”

“Then let me _go,_ ” Stiles pleaded. He knew it was useless. She’d already let him see her face; Kate had no intention to ever let him leave alive.

“Hmm, no. Sorry, cutie pie. How about I give you a makeover, instead?” Kate stopped twirling the knife and hopped off the table. “I’ll make you nice and tasty. Then Mitch won't be able to resist you when I give you back."

"Get away from me, you psycho!" Stiles fought at his restrains until his wrists were bloody, but it didn’t matter. He had nowhere to go. Kate only watched him in amusement.

"Don't worry, honey, I'm not the one that's going to kill you. Your little friend, however… Well. I guess we’ll just have to see."

Kate sliced open the front of Stiles’ shirt and pushed it out of her way, running her free hand down Stiles’ pale chest. “Not much to look at, are you? Oh, well, that’s not what you’re hear for, anyway.” She ran the tip of her pocketknife over his skin, not cutting into him yet.

“Please,” Stiles whispered, tears rolling freely down his face.

Kate twisted the knife, pressing the razor-sharp edge to his skin, and began to carve _._

***

The cuts weren’t deep. Just enough to paint his skin red with a sluggish flow of blood. Stiles didn’t know when he lost the energy to scream; the whole thing was a blur that left his voice hoarse and his throat aching. His mouth tasted like metal.

“He won’t do anything to me,” Stiles mumbled as Kate dragged him back to the cell. He could barely think, mind foggy from the adrenaline drop, but he’d caught on to what she was talking about when she kept saying her _pet_ —Mitch. Stiles didn’t know what Kate expected him to do, but Mitch hasn’t done anything to him so far. He had no reason to. And as far as Stiles was concerned, Mitch was his only ally here, in the same awful situation as him. “You’re the crazy one.”

“It’s cute that you think he won’t hurt you, sweetheart. But you? You’re just a snack pack for him, and I can’t _wait_ to watch him tear your throat out.” Kate opened the cell, shoved him through the door, and slammed it shut behind him. There was no light this time.

The cell was choked with perfect silence.

Stiles stayed where he was on his knees, looking down at the floor. He could feel his blood dripping hotly on the backs of his hands, sliding down his stomach. He could only hear his own ragged breaths.

But Mitch was completely, utterly _silent_.

“Mitch?” Stiles whispered into the darkness. He thought he heard the scrape of nails over concrete, somewhere to his left. He reached out. “Mitch?”

“Stay away from me,” he hissed. Fabric rustled as he scrambled back from Stiles, and he still couldn’t _see_.

The light flickered on.

Stiles would have screamed if the sound didn’t stay trapped in his lungs.

It was monstrous, the creature on the other side of the cell. Pale and gaunt, with sharp features and even sharper, gleaming white teeth. Grotesque fangs that ended in needlepoints edging over pale, thin lips, bared in a vicious snarl.

And hollow, dull, completely _black_ eyes.

Stiles scrambled back against the cell door, forcing himself to his feet and beating his hands against the metal, begging, “Get me out of here!” His pulsing heart meant he bled faster, and he realized—Kate intended to _feed him_ to the monster that had taken Mitch’s place. Because that wasn’t Mitch, it _couldn’t_ be.

Kate laughed. He could feel her warm breath on his face. She stood safely on the other side of the steel door, relishing in his fear. “Lights out,” she whispered.

“No, wait—!”

Darkness swallowed them. Stiles was whining—he didn’t realize at first, that blood rushing in his ears drowning out the high keen building in the back of his throat.

He was a lamb prepared for slaughter, braised in his own blood to be all the more tempting.

 _He’s going to eat you up, sweetheart._ Stiles hadn’t understood, before.

Stiles didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to make himself an even bigger target. But he remembered Mitch could see in the dark—remembered his sunken in, soulless black eyes—and knew it didn’t matter. He was wounded and trapped, and it was only a matter of time before the scent of blood drew the monster in.

Stiles slowly sank to the floor and pulled his knees to his bleeding chest, holding his shirt around himself. Trembling, he buried his face in his arms and waited for death.

***

Mitch did everything he could to ignore Stiles, digging brittle claws into his arms to keep from reaching out to him, savaging his own flesh. The scent of blood was overwhelming—Mitch could almost taste it. He _wanted_ to taste it.

 _Just a little bit, he can spare a pint. Or two,_ Mitch thought, his mouth watering. _No!_ Mitch slammed his head back against the wall, trying to beat some sense into himself. He couldn’t. He _wouldn’t._

Stiles’ ragged breaths broke through the silence of the room—Mitch focused on them to get himself through the haze of bloodlust, and kept himself confined to his corner of the cell. He wouldn’t kill for a hunter’s entertainment.

Mitch would _not_ be the cause of Stiles' death, even if that meant he had to kill himself.

***

The monster ignored Stiles for days. Slowly the cuts on his chest began to heal, and scabbed over by the time Kate came back to check on things. She was disappointed to find him still alive. Stiles was still waiting for it all to be a trick; a sick game Mitch was playing, dragging it out. But he never spoke, and he never came near, and Stiles never moved from his sanctuary beside the door, waiting for help that would never come.

When Kate turned on the light, Mitch moved for the first time, faster than Stiles could track. He was a blur, and Stiles barely threw himself out of the way in time.

Mitch managed to grab a fistful of Kate’s hair through the bars. He tried to yank her close, bash her head against the door, _anything,_ but she pulled out a remote out of her pocket and clicked it—Mitch collapsed screaming, trying to covers his ears. All Stiles could hear was a high-pitched beeping like sonar that quickly faded, out, going nowhere.

 _Into a range only Mitch can hear,_ Stiles realized.

"You mangy animal!" Kate spat. "You're more trouble than you're worth! I should rip out your fangs and turn them into a pair of earrings; no reason I need to keep all of you for a trophy." She watched him writhe in agony on the ground; Stiles' eyes were wide in horror, looking between the two. Kate, with sadistic satisfaction gleaming in her eyes, and Mitch, writhing in agony on the ground.

"Stop, stop it!" Stiles shouted, forgetting his fear. Because it’s been days and Mitch hasn’t come near him, and he’d let himself forget who the real monster was.

Kate sneered at him, letting the ultrasonic sound continue. Stiles knew she finally turned off the remote when Mitch stilled almost a full, agonizing minute later, lying panting on the ground, slumped over on his side. 

"Keep him in line or I'll kill you both,” Kate snapped before leaving.

Stiles didn’t go to Mitch until the outside door clanged shut, leaving them alone. Then he dropped at Mitch’s side, concern replacing any feat he might have had. But when he had barely touched Mitch's face to see if he was alright—reduced to using his hands in place of his eyes in the darkness—the vampire snarled at him.

"Stay the fuck away from me." Stiles reeled back and Mitch crawled away, dragging himself across the cement floor and presumably to his usual corner.

***

Kate started coming with food and water once a day, again. Or maybe it was longer than that. Stiles was going to call them Kate-Days. Once a Kate-Day, he was given a bland sandwich and a bottle of water, and Mitch was given nothing. Stiles knew why, now. _He_ was intended to be the meal.

_I bet Kate didn't count on Mitch leaving me alone. Bitch._

Stiles didn’t know _why_ Mitch left him alone, though. He’s been here at least a few weeks, and Mitch even longer, by the looks of him. He had to be starving by now. But he stayed silent and still on his side of the cell, and Stiles sometimes wondered if he was even still alive.

“Are you talking to me today?” Stiles asked, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling, pretending he could make out the pattern of brickwork. He couldn’t. It was a better use of his time than trying to talk to Mitch, though.

Mitch has been steadfastly ignoring Stiles ever since Kate exposed him for what he really was. The only time he’d acknowledged Stiles’ presence was when he took off his own shirt and threw it at Stiles, to replace the tattered remains of Stiles’. Other than that, he didn’t stand up, didn’t stretch, probably didn’t even _blink._ If he hadn’t once again growled at Stiles to _stay_ _away_ the one time Stiles tried approaching to check on him, Stiles really _would_ _have_ thought he was dead. He wasn’t, though. He was just an antisocial asshole.

"You know, people go crazy without human contact? Sensory deprivation is hell on our brains, especially with how much stimulation we're used to on a day to day basis. I wrote a history paper on it once. The history of _advanced interrogation techniques_ , which we both know just means torture. Fascinating stuff. Can't say I like becoming a primary resource on it, though."

"Do you ever stop talking?" Mitch asked in the following silence. Stiles sat up straighter, perking up because this was _progress._ It's been thirteen Kate-Days since Mitch last spoke to him.

"It lives! Does it live? Are you dead, or undead? Or are you alive, but infected with a virus that makes you a vampire, like _American Horror Story_? Or is it a parasite like _The Strain_?" Stiles paused and shuddered in revulsion. "It's not a parasite, right?"

"It's a virus," Mitch agreed with a tired sigh. Stiles broke out into a broad grin, because _Mitch was talking to him._ Stiles missed his surly voice. He didn’t want to be alone in the dark and quiet.

"So, you're alive?"

"I still have a pulse, if that's what your asking."

"That is so cool. Are vampires actually immortal?"

“I guess we're going to find out."

"Right…" Right, because Kate was doing her best to starve him.

Unwilling to let morbidity ruin Stiles' chance at interaction, he pressed on with his questions. "What happens when you don't drink blood for a long time? _Can_ you starve to death? Or dehydrate, I guess."

"I don't know," Mitch answered honestly. "About the death part. But if we don't feed… after long enough, we wither. It's like being mummified alive."

"Jesus." Stiles remembered how Mitch look last time he saw him; gaunt and pale, with paper-thin skin stretched over sharp features. Inhuman.

He hasn't fed in… years, probably.

Stiles couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have been held captive for so long, starved and tortured for her sadistic pleasure. He didn’t know why she _wanted_ them. Well—Stiles knew why she wanted _him;_ like she said, he was just meant to be a quick meal for Mitch. But he couldn’t figure out why she was hanging onto Mitch.

She called him a trophy; were there others? Was she keeping some kind of monster menagerie? Stiles hadn’t noticed any other cells, but the only times he’s been taken out of this one, he was focused on other things.

***

"How old are you?" Stiles asked on a different Kate-Day. He was thinking about how long he’s been here—two months? Three? —and wondering if his birthday had passed, yet. He was going to spend it with his dad and Scott and Melissa at the beach this year, or go camping. Something fun to celebrate turning eighteen. He would be lucky if he even lived that long…

Stiles drummed his fingers on his thigh as he waited for Mitch to answer. When he finally spoke it was to say, “I think I need a calculator.”

"You're _that_ old?"

"No! I just wasn't born in an easy year like _you._ "

"Two-thousand’s babies have it the best," Stiles agreed. "When were you born?"

"’Sixty-six."

"Wow, so you're still human age.” That felt… kind of weird, actually. Vampires should all be at _least_ a hundred years old, minimum. Mitch had to be, what… in his fifty’s? Even though he didn’t even look thirty yet. “Do you think you can find your parents again, after we get out of here?"

"They’re dead. Died a long time ago, actually, even before I was turned."

"Oh. I'm sorry…" Stiles heard fabric scuff against cement and thought Mitch might have shrugged. “Do you have any other family?”

“A younger brother. I have no idea if he’s still alive, though. I tried to keep tabs on him before, but…”

But then Kate happened.

***

Kate had ambushed him on his way home from a late-night movie. Bashed him over the head in the parking lot; he never saw her coming. It was so _stupid._ He should have known better. His dad always taught him to be more aware of his surroundings— _condition yellow, Stiles, don’t ever let anyone get the drop on you—_ but the one time it mattered most, he hadn’t been paying attention. She was on him in those few minutes he’d let his guard down.

Now, it’s been months. Stiles was sure of it. He didn’t keep track of the Kate-Days anymore—he didn’t have any way to do it, couldn’t even scratch ticks into the wall—but he knew. His hair had been buzzed short when she took him, but it’s started handing into his eyes, and he was thin. Thinner than before, his body burning through what little excess fat stores he had to keep up with her neglect.

 _I’m never getting out of here,_ Stiles thought, picking at his shoelaces.

He used to be optimistic. His dad would find him, take him home. He’d be missing for three weeks tops and then he would never have to see Kate Argent again, because she would be locked up behind bars for the rest of her life. But Stiles couldn’t keep lying to himself. His dad wasn’t coming. No one was.

“Where are you?” Stiles asked into the darkness, his voice quiet. Soft under the weight of his despair.

“Over here,” Mitch said.

Stiles scrawled over to the approximate location of his voice, the ground gritting painfully against his palms and the frayed knees of his jeans. Mitch touched his shoulder when he got close enough, guiding Stiles over.

“I want you to bite me.”

***

“ _What_?”

“Bite me. Come on, Dracula, drink my blood.” Mitch snorted.

“No.” Stiles had to be joking. Even if Mitch wanted to—which he very much _did_ —he couldn’t. Not without hurting Stiles, maybe even _killing_ him. He didn’t have the blood to spare, and Mitch didn’t know how much self-control he still had. After how long he’s been here, his restraint was… _frayed,_ to say the least.

“ _Yes._ You haven’t fed in God knows how long, but if you do, you’ll be stronger, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m still not going to.” Stiles made a sound of frustration, reaching out for Mitch. He grabbed him by the shoulders like he wanted to shake some sense into him. His fingers were thin and spindly, like spiders crawling over Mitch’s skin.

“Just _bite me.”_

 _“Why?_ ”

“Because then you’ll be strong enough to get out of here!”

“Stiles…” Of course. Mitch should have seen it sooner, when Stiles; nonstop talking tapered off into the occasional bitter joke. Pop culture references replaced by gallows humor. He’d given up. 

"It's okay," Stiles whispered. Mitch could smell the salt of his tears, even if he couldn’t see them.

"No, it's _not,_ ” Mitch insisted. He pushed the boy away—gently—now that he knew what Stiles really wanted. But Stiles gravitated right back to him. “I can't—I won't be able to stop myself." He was too hungry, already drifting forward at Stiles' offer. The siren-song of rushing blood pulled him in. It took everything in Mitch to hold himself back when Stiles sweetly bared his neck, to put himself across the cell, as far as he could get from Stiles. Mitch's voice was rough through his fangs when he said, "I'll kill you."

"But you'll be strong enough to get out," Stiles insisted. "One of us should, and me? I'll never escape on my own. I can't. But—but you _can,_ so _please._ Just… just find my dad when you get out, and tell him—tell him I love him."

Mitch could see Stiles perfectly in the dark. Could see the curve of his neck and the fine arc of his collarbone when he pulled the collar of his shirt aside. He could see the way Stiles tightly closed his eyes when he slowly approached, shaking with fear, in anticipation of pain that never came. Mitch ran his fingertips down Stiles' shoulder and pulled his shirt back over, straightening it. God, but it _hurt_ to do so, to deny himself what he most wanted. What he _needed._

"Tell him yourself," Mitch said in as steady a voice as he could muster, as brittle as his claws.

Stiles choked on a sob and fell blindly into his arms, trusting Mitch to catch him. "I don't want to die!" Mitch held Stiles carefully, gritting his teeth. His control was tenuous at best, yet Stiles was throwing himself at him, testing his restraint. Mitch didn’t know whether it came from trust or fear.

***

Stiles could tell by the way Mitch irritably fiddled with his hair sometimes that he wouldn't keep it that long by choice. Lanky, thin black strands fell well past his shoulders, brittle and flat. Not the glossy shine of healthy hair.

Stiles' own hair was greasy with built-up oil and he tried to avoid touching it, feeling the gross sticky-slick on his fingers. Kate dragged him out once or twice a month to hose him down, but he would actually _kill_ for a real shower.

He expected Mitch's hair to be just the same, but surprisingly, it was actually dry and almost dusty. Like a mummy. Probably a vampire thing. His lanky locks were tangled to all hell, though, and Stiles was fidgety, so it made all the sense in the world to spend a few hours combing his fingers through the snags while Mitch hissed and complained. He had to know that Stiles was an inch away from clawing his own skin off, though, or else he probably wouldn't have let Stiles touch him in the first place.

Ever since Stiles offered up his life to Mitch, the surly vampire has been a lot more friendly to him.

Stiles fell into an almost trance-like state. He couldn't see a thing, but he was used to that, by now. Used to using his hands as his eyes, with the occasional commentary from Mitch. Sometimes Stiles was jealous that Mitch was unhindered by the darkness. Other times he was grateful he didn't have to see the confines of their cage. In the darkness, he could pretend they were somewhere—anywhere—else.

Mitch hemmed and hawed and complained, and in the beginning, it was probably even genuine; Stiles' fingers weren't nimble enough to work out the knots in Mitch's hair with anything resembling delicacy, although he did try to be gentle. But at this point, Stiles could feel Mitch relax into it, his head falling forward and his shoulders drooping, his body losing its tense rigidity. The rhythmic brushing was just as soothing for him; Mitch may be a vampire now, but he was still human enough to crave that contact, just like Stiles did.

Mitch didn't sleep but sometimes he would lay with his head in Stiles' lap, being gently pet, and he would come close to it.

***

"'M cold," Stiles mumbled."

"Sucks to be human." There wasn't a whole lot Mitch could do for him. As the weather turned Kate had been kind enough to give Stiles a blanket, but it was thin and scratchy, and didn’t offer much warmth. “Come here.”

“Ugh.” Stiles reluctantly unfolded himself and came over, waiting for Mitch to guide him on what to do. Mitch pulled Stiles down to lay on top of him, and Stiles swore. “Jesus, you’re _freezing._ ”

“Sorry.” Mitch’s wasn’t _dead,_ strictly speaking, but he did have a lower core temperature than a normal human. Still, he was warmer than the ground, and could at least provide a buffer between Stiles and the cement that was leaching all of his warmth. He bundled Stiles up in the blanket and rubbed his arms to generate some warmth, and it slowly started to help. Stiles sighed above him, burying his face against his bare chest.

***

"Do you think we'll ever get out of here?" Stiles asked, his voice a tired mumble. Mitch was rubbing his back and it felt… nice. Even if he was cold to touch, Stiles needed that physical reassurance of another human to keep him anchored in the present. 

"I don't know," Mitch answered honestly. "I've been here for a long time."

"Have you given up?" Mitch shrugged, jostling Stiles. "I don't want to give up. But I think… I think after a certain point, it's the hope that kills you faster than the circumstances."

"Maybe."

Mitch could afford to give up hope; he wouldn't be trapped forever, and he would probably live for as long as it took to eventually get out of here. He never talked about any loved ones waiting for him outside. No one to miss him. Whether it took him a day or a decade to escape, it wouldn't make any difference in the grand scope of his life.

But Stiles couldn't wait. He would live that long, and he _did_ have people missing him. Scott and Melissa and his dad. His dad… Stiles had no idea how he was handling everything. Coming home one day to find Stiles missing, spending weeks sending out search parties, watching them slowly dwindle until no one bothered to show up anymore… he would be alone. Losing the last of his family would destroy him.

"I miss my dad…" Stiles whispered, his voice breaking. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks and onto Mitch's chest, dampening his skin. "I just want to go home."

"I know," Mitch said quietly. He didn't promise that Stiles would, someday. Didn't tell him to hold out hope. There was no comfort he could offer that wouldn't be a lie.

All he could do was hug Stiles tight and remind him that at least he wasn't alone, and the silence was deafening.

***

Stiles was getting weaker; Mitch could feel it. That predatory sense hardwired into his DNA telling him to strike while his prey was vulnerable. Stiles hardly ever talked anymore, and his pulse beat erratically, slow one moment and then stuttered and fast the next, trying to catch up. Most of the time he slept, curled up against Mitch's chest, and spent his waking hours still exhausted.

He knew Stiles was dying. While Mitch could survive for years in this cell—the terrifying thought that he might outlive Kate and remain trapped here forever was always at the back of his mind—humans weren't meant for this kind of captivity. Stiles wouldn't be able to survive much longer.

"Stiles," Mitch said softly, shaking Stiles' shoulder to wake him. Stiles only groaned, and swatted at his hand. "Stiles, wake up."

"What?" Stiles groaned.

"I'm going to get us out of here."

Stiles looked up at him groggily, squinting. "How?"

That was the question, wasn't it?

***

The risk couldn't be understated. Mitch couldn't promise he wouldn't take too much—Stiles was already so weak, and Mitch hadn't fed in _so long._ He would be fighting every part of himself not to go too far.

Months ago, Stiles offered his blood to Mitch, and he refused. It was a risk he wasn't willing to take. Before, Stiles offered out of desperation. He still had hope that everything would be okay. He didn't really want to die, even though he tried to put on a brave face.

Now, Stiles was at the end of his rope. He knew he wasn't getting out of this alive.

"Is it going to hurt?" he asked dully, leaning against Mitch's chest. The vampire's heart beat a steady rhythm; it was slower than Stiles expected it to be. Exactly sixty beats per minute. He counted, once.

"A little. Not for long, though."

Stiles closed his eyes and thought of his father. _I'm sorry, dad._

"Do it."

***

The darkness was a mercy. It meant Stiles didn't have to see Mitch change into something monstrous, his fangs lengthening grotesquely. He cupped the back of Stiles' neck and pulled aside the collar of his shirt, and sank his teeth into Stiles' jugular.

Stiles gasped. He dug his nails into Mitch's chest, seizing up at the pain. Within seconds it was washed away by unexpected pleasure. An effect of the venom in Mitch's saliva, meant to keep his victims pliant and willing.

" _Oh,_ " Stiles sighed, his lashes fluttering as he went limp in Mitch's arms.

***

Hot blood poured into Mitch's mouth like sweet nectar. It made his senses _sing._ He drowned in the copper taste of it, taking deep pulls until he felt drunk off of Stiles' blood. He was careful not to spill so much as a drop.

He held Stiles to his chest, one arm around the boy's narrow waist to keep him from escape. Stiles' blood wasn’t enough; it only whet his appetite for _more._

***

"Stop," Stiles mumbled, pushing weakly at Mitch's chest. Sparks danced in his vision, and he could feel his fingers tingling. "Stop… Mitch… it's too much…" In the complete darkness of the cell, Stiles couldn’t see his vision fading to black.

***

Mitch still had the taste of Stiles' blood on his tongue when he crooned Kate's name, reaching for the compulsion he hasn't used in years, his voice syrupy and sweet. A mocking, sonorous lilt that drew her closer, even as her instincts screamed at her to run. She was strong-willed, and may have even managed to break the compulsion—Mitch was still so weak, Stiles' blood nowhere near enough to restore his strength—if Mitch hadn't spent every day he's been locked away thinking about this moment, reinforcing it in his mind. Waiting for the chance to strike with a single-minded intensity he hasn't employed since his time with the CIA. Mitch's teeth were stained a gruesome red and Kate was no doubt fighter herself, but she still walked right into his clutches when he smiled and told her to open the door.

As soon it was open Mitch grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair and tore open her throat with his brittle claws, not caring when they broke against her spine. He didn't want to grant her even the small mercy of the euphoric venom in his bite, didn't want her to feel anything but agony as she bled out.

The compulsion was washed away by agony and blood—so much wasted as it poured down her chest—but the damage was done. Kate looked at Mitch, her eyes wide with fear for the first time he's ever seen, and even though the scent of her blood is almost irresistible, he waited to watch the light leave her eyes. She couldn't look away from the darkness in his own.

"Told you I'd tear your throat out," he told her with a bloody, saccharine smile.

Only when Kate's heart finally stopped beating did Mitch sink his fangs into what was left of her neck, draining her dry with perhaps too much glee. His only regret was that by tearing her throat out, so much blood was lost in the arterial spray. But with every deep pull he could feel his strength return to him; Stiles' blood was enough to get him on his feet, but he was still malnourished, deficient of the nutrients he needed to survive. Kate was strong and healthy, and her blood invigorated him.

"Mitch," Stiles moaned, lying in a forgotten heap on the ground behind him. The light inside was hardly flattering where it cut across his frail form. Mitch—reluctantly—discarded Kate's corpse and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It didn't do much for the spray of blood painted all down his chest and matting his hair.

But despite his appearance, monstrous in all his glory, Stiles wasn't afraid. He didn't flinch or look away, even as his nightmares came to life before him. Mitch picked Stiles up with some effort, nowhere near full strength, and cradled Stiles against his chest.

"Let's get out of here."

Mitch still needed to tend Stiles after how much blood he lost, but he had no idea if Kate was working alone; hunters rarely did, and they needed to get far away from here before they could afford to relax and lick their wounds.

***

They were hours away from Kate when they finally stopped. Mitch was exhausted from carrying a barely-lucid Stiles, only just clinging to life, and he hoped they were far enough away to rest, because he didn’t know how much longer Stiles would last.

Mitch gently put Stiles on the ground and collapsed beside him, staring up at the night sky. How many years has it been since he last saw the stars?

Stiles groaned unintelligibly, his breathing shallow. Mitch pulled him close, holding him cradled against his body; he was so cold, colder even than Mitch. There was little Mitch could do for him, but he could at least ensure Stiles stayed alive long enough to get him help. Mitch bit his wrist until it bled, hoping his blood would be enough. "Here," he said, putting his bleeding wrist to Stiles' mouth, using his free hand to cup the back of Stiles’ neck and hold his head steady. Stiles was limp and delirious from the blood loss, but still had enough wherewithal to turn his head away. Blood smeared violently across his face.

"No. Don' wanna turn."

"You won't. You won't, Stiles," Mitch promised, dry lips rasping against Stiles' temple. Mitch pressed a kiss to Stiles' hair and said, "I won't let you."

This wouldn't be enough to turn him—he would have to die and come back, something Mitch had no intention of allowing—but it would tie him to Mitch. A temporary bond from the sharing of his blood.

Stiles opened his mouth around the wound, letting the copper tang of blood fill his mouth. He was soothed by the way Mitch pet his hair, holding him, protecting him. Long fingers curved around his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek that was damp with blood and tears.

***

Mitch didn't know where they were, only that they were stranded somewhere in the wilderness. He had followed the dirt road leading from Kate's house after their escape; it led to a highway, with no signs or markers. Stiles was too out of it to offer his input, so Mitch picked a direction and started walking. Anytime a car passed he ducked back into the trees, acutely aware of how they looked; both of them ragged and unkempt, Mitch shirtless and covered in too much blood to be his own. He wouldn’t risk seeking help from a stranger.

He was exhausted but he didn't sleep; it wouldn't help. Stiles still did, though. During the day he would stumble alongside Mitch, his arm thrown around the vampire’s shoulders to stay upright, looking for any clue of where they were—the best they'd figured out was that they were outside of Beacon Hills, a town Mitch had never heard of but where Stiles apparently came from—and Mitch carried him at night, trudging onwards. They were able to cover more ground that way, even if Mitch did feel his strength waning. He didn't mention it. There was nothing Stiles could do to help; he couldn't afford to spare anymore than he already had.

When they finally came upon the town, Mitch broke into the first yard he saw with laundry drying on a clothesline outside and stole a change of clothes for the two of them. Still no shoes, but at least Stiles would be warm and Mitch looked less like a serial killer.

"Do you think you can find your house from here?" Mitch asked as they changed. Stiles looked around, blinking hard. He was still out of it. After several long moment, he slowly nodded.

"Yeah, I… yeah."

Mitch managed a smile for Stiles' sake. "We’re almost there," he said softly. Stiles could only nod, his eyes glistening with tears.

***

They reached Stiles' house late into the night; there were no lights on in any of the houses on the street. It was perfectly quiet. Peaceful.

"What if he's not there?" Stiles asked, a terrified quiver choking his voice.

"He will be."

"What if he doesn't recognize me?

"He will."

"But it's been so long, and I don't have any way to prove it's me—"

"Stiles," Mitch said gently. "It's going to be okay."

Stiles sniffled and nodded, steeling himself. Together they walked up to the porch, Mitch holding an arm around Stiles' waist to keep him standing, and rang the doorbell.

***

John swore when he heard the doorbell. He tried to ignore it, hoping that whoever it was would go away. But a voice at the back of his mind nagged at him; _what if it's someone that needs help?_

He looked at the bottle of Jack Daniels beside him, almost empty, and swore again. _I'm not in any shape to help anyone._

The doorbell rang again, and he heard a thin, wavering voice cry, " _Dad_?" He closed his eyes. _It's not him. He's gone. Stiles is gone._ This wouldn't be the first time he's hallucinated Stiles coming home to him. Just another cruel trick played by his mind to cope with the fact that he knew his boy was never coming home.

" _Dad_!" This time someone banged hard on the door. Not a figment of his imagination, then.

John got up and stumbled over to the front door, hauling it open to see two strangers standing there, skinny and filth and barely alive, but clinging to each other like that’s the only thing holding them together.

“ _Dad_ ,” Stiles said, and his voice cracked.

***

Stiles and his father looked at each other for only a moment before John broke down weeping, and Stiles joined him a second later, the two of them collapsing into each other’s arms. Stiles felt so small in his father’s embrace, like a kid again, and the wracking sobs made his chest ache. But the relief was worth the pain.

_I'm home, I'm finally home. We made it._

Mitch was somewhere behind him, unseen and ignored. A strange feeling made Stiles scrub away his tears tong enough to look over his shoulder and find Mitch trying to quietly slip away into the shadows. Like he thought he wasn't needed anymore, now that he's fulfilled his part of the deal.

“Wait!” Mitch froze. Stiles wanted to reach out to him, but he couldn't let go of his dad. He sniffled pitifully and said, “Don’t leave. Please.” Mitch slowly nodded.

With Mitch's help, Stiles picked up his dad and got him inside. Mitch did something to him to calm him down, keep him from asking questions. Like there was something in his voice when he told John to go to bed, said they would all talk in the morning. Stiles was too exhausted to ask about it; he'd missed his dad _so much,_ but now that he was home… It's been months. A year, probably. He could wait a few more hours.

Stiles couldn't even hope to answer any of his father's questions until he's had time to process everything himself.

After putting his dad to bed, Stiles slumped against the closed door and exhaled slowly. "Now what?"

Without the adrenaline rush of their escape, Stiles felt adrift. Numb. He didn't know how to find comfort in home because he couldn't believe it was actually real; who's to say they really had escaped? Maybe Stiles had just finally lost his mind.

“Showers. Definitely showers.” Stiles laughed, because yeah. They were both filthy. Hell, Mitch was still covered in _blood_ beneath his stolen shirt. “You should go first.”

“Come with me?” Stiles offered before he could think better of it. A year ago, Stiles never would have asked, but now? After everything they've been through this past year? Showering together didn't seem so intimate. "I don't think I can even stand on my own. I feel like I'm going to pass out." It was a weak defense at best, but Mitch didn't call him out it. He didn't force Stiles to admit the real reason he didn't want to be alone; that the idea of being left to his thoughts was more than he could take.

“Okay," Mitch agreed, because he understood it all without Stiles having to say a thing. Maybe he even felt the same.

Mitch followed Stiles to the bathroom and they undressed in silence, kicking their clothes away. Stiles took a second to be mildly surprised that Mitch had a reflection—he forgot to ask if that was just a myth—before turning on the shower. The white-noise of the water buzzed in his mind.

"Are you okay?" Mitch asked when Stiles didn't move. He was staring at his own reflection in the mirror; his eyes tracing the scars Kate carved into his body. Only a year, yet he could hardly recognize himself anymore.

"Yeah," Stiles lied. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired." He stepped into the shower. The hot spray of the water hurt at first, between the heat and the pressure, like needles against his skin. Mitch joined him and Stiles shivered at the vampire's cold skin when Mitch brushed against him.

Slowly, Stiles relaxed. The warmth seeped into him, breaking through that painful numb, and he had to keep his hands braced against the wall so he didn't collapse entirely. Mitch kept a hand on his waist to catch him in case he fell. Maybe it should have been more awkward than it was—the two of them pressed close together in the small space of the shower, like something out of Stiles' teenage fantasies—but it wasn't. Stiles couldn't muster the energy to be self-conscious about his body.

He just wanted to get cleaned up, and sleep.

"Stiles."

"Mm?"

"Hand me the body wash." Mitch had a tone like he was repeating himself. Stiles blinked focus back into his eyes and looked down, where the bottle was sitting innocently on the ledge in front of him. He handed it back to Mitch, who lathered up a washcloth to scrub down Stiles back.

Stiles melted under Mitch's touch as he washed away the grit and grime of captivity, and worked out the tense knots bunching Stiles' shoulders until he was loose-limbed at pliant. He didn't even need to bite him to do it.

Once the water sluicing off of Stiles' body ran clear, Mitch lathered his hair up with shampoo, and Stiles almost collapsed right there. "That feels good," he murmured, tilting his head back into Mitch's hands. His eyes fell closed as Mitch's nails scratched over his scalp, washing away built up oil and dirt until the strands were soft and clean. Stiles had forgotten how good a simple shower could feel.

Mitch rinsed Stiles' hair, and smoothed his palm down Stiles' neck, massaging away the tension. He gently rubbed his thumb over the purpling bruise on Stiles' throat, the only evidence of his otherwise-healed bite.

Stiles felt caught in some kind of limbo. He knew this was real; it had to be, it _felt_ real, the water beating down on him, Mitch's hands on his body. But at the same time, how could he trust it? He's spent so long in the dark, how could he rely on his own senses anymore? Hallucinations were a symptom of prolonged sensory deprivation, and God knows he'd spent more than enough time in that cell for his mind to conjure all of this up, some kind of elaborate trick. A pleasant dream to escape the horror of his circumstances.

"Hey," Mitch said softly. He turned Stiles' around and tilted chin up to look at him. "It's real, Stiles. You're safe."

Stiles tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. His whole body felt so heavy, he couldn't pick up his lips to make the expression. "Can you read my mind, or something?"

"Or something," Mitch said wryly. "I can feel you. After I gave you my blood, we're sort of… bonded. It's temporary, it'll wear off in a few weeks."

"Oh." Maybe that wasn't so bad. Mitch could understand him without Stiles having to try and explain himself. Things always got so mixed up in translation.

"Come on, you should go to bed. You can barely stand."

"What about you?" Mitch looked down at himself—still filthy and covered in blood. Stiles grimaced. "Oh, yeah." Stiles maneuvered around Mitch so that he could stand under the water, and watched it run red. Stiles carefully climbed out of the shower. "I'll bring you something to change into," he said.

"Thanks."

Stiles wrapped up in a towel and went to his bedroom—he stopped short when he realized it was exactly as he left it, down to the homework still chaotically spread out on the desk. A fine layer of dust covered everything, the only sign that no one's been in here in months. Stiles felt like crying all over again. He didn't, though.

Stiles held himself together, getting dried off and changed into pajamas. Clean and dressed, enveloped in familiar surroundings, he felt human again. The irony wasn’t lost on him that it was a monster who gave him that security.

Stiles got a change of clothes to leave on the bathroom counter for Mitch, and tried to believe this was real.

***

Stiles smiled when Mitch joined him in his room, fresh out of the shower and looking almost human. His borrowed pants were a few inches too short, but he didn’t mention it.

“How are you feeling?” Mitch asked, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Better, I think. It’s… hard to believe it’s really over.” Stiles did, though. He would _make_ himself believe if he had to. They were free, and he wasn’t going to let Kate win by doubting himself.

“It is, though.”

“Yeah. It is.” Stiles watched Mitch rake a hand through his hair; the damp strands fell halfway down his back, now, and kept sticking to his skin. Stiles could feel some kind of annoyance and wondered if the bond Mitch mentioned went both ways. “Come here,” he said, patting the bed.

***

Mitch reluctantly joined him, sitting on the edge while Stiles kneeled behind him. It was dark in the room, but there was enough light coming through the window for Stiles to see. It felt better than it should to have Stiles’ nimble fingers curling through his hair, this time unhindered by knots and tangles. There were no sharp bites of pain to detract from the simple pleasure.

Stiles carefully sectioned out Mitch’s hair into three parts, and folded them into a lose braid that he bound with a rubber band, then flipped it over Mitch’s shoulder. “There,” he said, smoothing it down with a soft smile.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Stiles yawned, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. He really was going to fall flat on his face soon. “Do you even sleep?” he wondered. Mitch never seemed to before, but in the dark, Stiles had no real way to tell when Mitch was sleeping, or just ignoring him.

“I don’t have to, but… I think I want to tonight. If that’s okay.”

“Yeah. C'mon.” Stiles shuffled away and pulled back the covers, because of course there was no question that Mitch would be sleeping with him. The guest room on the other side of the wall didn’t even cross his mind.

Mitch slid under the covers beside him, the pair lying on their sides to facing each other in the dark. Stiles could just barely make out Mitch’s features, the moonlight cut across his face. He found Mitch’s hand in the dark and laced their fingers together, smiling because he knew Mitch would see it.

“We made it,” he whispered.

***

The next morning, the warm sunlight streaming through the window was the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever seen. He never thought he would miss waking up with the sun, but God, trapped in that room, he would have given anything to see the light just once.

Mitch was still sound asleep beside him, pale in the morning light. A healthy kind of pale, though, no longer translucent. He’d gotten some color back after finally feeding. Stiles could only imagine how awful he still looked without supernatural healing on his side.

A few strands came free of Mitch’s braid. Stiles reached out and delicately brushed them out of his face. Mitch’s skin was cool, and the soft touch was enough to wake him, his eyes fluttering open. Stiles was pleasantly surprised to find they were a warm brown, instead of the completely onyx-black he was used to. 

“Your eyes are so pretty,” he said softly, his voice jarring in the quiet peace of the early morning. Mitch smiled. He turned his cheek against Stiles’ palm, and pressed a kiss to his wrist that made Stiles’ pulse quicken. He knew Mitch could hear it.

And he could definitely hear when Stiles’ stomach growled loudly, and Stiles blushed. “Sorry.”

“I’ll make you breakfast,” he said with a laugh.

***

John came downstairs while Mitch was making breakfast. He turned, expecting Stiles, and was instead met with the harrowed face of a heartbroken father. He still smelled like alcohol from last night.

“Stiles?” John asked, his voice a shaking whisper. Just as disbelieving as before, but so painfully hopeful.

Mitch knew what he saw, what he was thinking; that John looked at him and saw his son. Their features were similar enough—dark hair, dark eyes, pale speckled skin, gaunt face—that Mitch could resemble an older, abused Stiles to someone desperate enough. John was more than desperate to believe, to look past the glaring differences. Ignoring the way Mitch looked much older than Stiles was now, because that could be attributed to the stress and horror of captivity aging him beyond his years, couldn’t it?

“He’s upstairs,” Mitch said gently. John was easier to compel than Kate; he was already so willing. “Sit, he’ll be down soon.”

John looked like he wanted to fight, or at the very least question him, but Mitch's voice—rough, hoarse, nothing like the smooth tone he used to have—wrapped around him and made him comply. Mitch stepped away from the stove long enough to make John a cup of coffee and set it down in front of him, while pancakes sizzled in the pan.

Stiles came down a few minutes later, drawn by Mitch pulling on their bond, and met his father with a hug.

“I’m home, dad.”

**Author's Note:**

> (Edit: Guys please leave a comment, I worked really hard on this...)
> 
> Some things I wanted to write but that didn't make it in:  
> \- Mitch keeps his original (book) canon backstory here. Meaning he was in the CIA, etc.  
> \- He became a vampire a year or two after joining the CIA  
> \- They're going to take Stiles to the hospital bc he's still fucked up, but Mitch's blood comes with some extra perks  
> \- Stiles is "dangerously anemic" ; )  
> \- Because of their bond, Mitch is going to stay with Stiles for the next 6 weeks; the amount of time it will take for his blood to cycle through Stiles' system and be replaced  
> \- Mitch still isn't up to full strength, so he's going to need to go back out for a bite (har har)  
> \- Stiles gets really into the whole sexy venom thing. I *really* wanted to include another scene of Mitch biting him, but it just didn't fit, since this fic isn't about the smut. Unfortunately :' ) 
> 
> Who knows, any of these things could be made into shorter companion pieces. But for now, I hope you enjoyed! Happy spooky season, I'm going to try and have 2-3 more vampire Mitch fics posted this month, and a larger project posted on Halloween that I've been working at for a few months. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it, and check out my LHAW20 fic, More Than Just Surviving! Seriously, it is the *sweetest*.


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